


Lesson and Learning

by wormhourdeluxe



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Begging, Biting, Blood As Lube, Crying, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Lube, Past Relationship(s), Porn with Feelings, Post-Marineford, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unsafe Sex, does this.......... Count as comfort sex, slightly OOC? grief does that to u ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21832855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormhourdeluxe/pseuds/wormhourdeluxe
Summary: Marco struggles to heal, even after all this time.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45
Collections: Dicks Out For Ace’s Death





	Lesson and Learning

**Author's Note:**

> SHE'S SHORT AS FUCK !!! 🎉

The room was spinning off its axle. Marco could still hear the door slamming like a continuous reverberation in his head, splintering off its hinges behind him. His ribcage was pressurized. Heart full to bursting, lungs ballooning up and out, bones cracking— Marco was collapsing and expanding like the last, frantic breaths of a dying star. 

“You want me,” Shanks breathed, “...to  _ hurt _ you?” 

Marco was going to snap, going to  _ explode,  _ going to rip himself to pieces with desperate hands reaching. “I  _ want,” _ he snarled. His nails dragged and caught. Tore red welts straight through the thin cotton of Shanks’ shirt.  _ “I want—“ _ Suffocating, he was suffocating. His hands trembled, tight and painful where they held Shanks down. He had no free hand to reach up, to hold that heated spot buried in his chest, to try and relieve the pressure of— _ “I want—“ _

_ I am not allowed to want anything. Not anymore. Not kindness, not mercy, not— _

His eyes went blurry and dark, and Shanks surged up upon him like an oncoming storm. 

Hands, on him. Touch with none of the rushed passion or even fragile care— fingers wrapped tight around Marco’s neck, fingers in the dip of his throat with nothing but the intent to harm. 

(To grip, to hold– but he could not bear to even consider a touch given for any reason other than to hurt him. Not now. Not when the last person to touch him so  _ kindly _ was–) 

Shanks held, and  _ pressed. _ Marco hissed out a curse, giddy with pain, with hurt, with  _ relief— _ “I’ll hurt you, then,” Shanks murmured. He leaned forward, down. His weight forced all of Marco’s breath out, forced the tightness out of his chest and up, whistling past the lump in his throat. Marco couldn’t even think. Couldn’t spare a thought past that all-consuming oppression. Shanks’ knees bracketed him, contained him— him and all of his lingering nothingness; a void stuffed into the space of a box and packed, with all of its writhing and screaming, under Shanks’ calloused hands— “I’ll beat all that stubbornness out of you.” 

His hand was replaced with teeth. A flash of white, latching onto Marco’s throat like a wolf striking a killing blow, digging in with the means to  _ rip and tear _ and Marco let out a ragged gasp. Tears streamed into his hairline as his head jerked back, thumping painfully against the floorboards. They were in the middle of the floor. Right there in broad daylight, fully clothed and loud— and even hidden behind the walls of Shanks’ cabin Marco was unable to shake the whisper that he was attending his own public execution. 

Shanks yanked at his sash, force nearly dislodging Marco, if he wasn’t still pinned bruisingly tight between knees cuttingly sharp. The click of a belt, the rough drag of fabric– 

The pads of two fingers slipped between Marco’s legs and he  _ lost it. _ Nearly cracked both their skulls open, forcing his numb hands up and curling into Shanks’ collar—  _ “Do not,” _ he nearly shouted, “dont— dont fucking— I don’t  _ deserve it—!” _ Shanks’ eyes were so wide, just inches from his own— “I don’t— I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve—“ a hiccuping sob ripped out of his throat and his heart stuttered, high and painful, when Shanks pulled back.  _ “—no!”  _

He gasped when a sharp pain exploded over his cheek. Shanks’ face had darkened, hardened into something terrifying— _(thank you, thank you, finally—)_ _“Shut up,”_ he bit out, his palm still wet with Marco’s tears. He dragged him closer by his hip, manhandling him onto his front in a rough, singular movement that sent Marco’s knees skidding across the wood, “I’m not letting you go.” 

(The admission sent a new stream of tears down Marco’s face and he moaned, sick with it, and turned his face away.) 

Shanks’ cock was shoved into him. Blunt and without warning. No prep, no lube, no hesitation— and Marco  _ shrieked. _

Immediately, he could feel his body leap to begin knitting the tears, the stretch— and he bit down on it with strength enough to shatter steel between his molars. Blood made the slide easy, made the weight still clenching Marco’s heart tight bleed out in tiny, painful increments. 

It wasn’t  _ enough. _

“Fuck me,” Marco begged, “Fuck me,  _ hurt me, _ rip me to fucking pieces—“ Shanks’ hand caught his wrist, flailing back— whether to plead or to brace, he never knew— nails digging into his skin. A harsh pull forced Marco’s body farther back onto Shanks’ cock, and he screamed a second time as his shoulder popped out of its joint with a sick sound barely covered by the wet slap of skin. “— _ yes _ —“

“I can’t believe this,” Shanks snapped out between thrusts. His grip was so tight that Marco was sure, even through his tears, that his wrist was a mottled purple. “You’re— this isn’t how—“ he pressed down,  _ in _ — Marco trembled around a shuddering cry as Shanks’ cock ground punishingly against his prostate, splitting him open so roughly his teeth clamped down around his tongue. Shanks’ weight pressed his chest firmly down against the floorboards, cold and wet with his own tears, with blood and sweat and a splatter of shameful precum. Tears continued to slide unhindered down his cheeks, escaping eyes squeezed uselessly shut. His uninjured hand clawed at the floor. Nails scraped painfully against the grains. “—this  _ isn’t—“ _

Pain, pleasure— Marco could feel his own arousal building even under the thick veil of  _ grief _ and felt, intensely, nothing but blinding  _ shame _ — 

_ “Please,” _ Marco warbled, pressing his forehead down against the floor with his voice running thin, and Shanks let out a startled groan as he came so hard the bones in Marco’s wrist ground to dust under his fingers. Marco didn’t manage more than a pained whine. Shanks let go, only hesitating a moment at Marco’s low groan when his arm slid to the floor in order to slip a hand back down between his thighs, wrapping his hand almost delicately around his untouched dick. 

Immediately, Marco lurched violently in his grip. His cheek lifted off the floor, sob hitching in his throat as he tried, shaking and useless, to push Shanks’ hand off him. “No, n-no,” he hiccuped, “don’t make— don’t make me cum, I— I don’t  _ want _ to.” His teeth grit, head thrown back when Shanks testingly rolled his hips, pace gentled to something horribly slower to accommodate for his own sensitivity.  _ “Stop! _ It’s not supposed to—“ 

Shanks breathed in, out. He leaned back, arranging himself to sit down rather than to stay caging the other in. Touch more careful than it had been since Marco had first swooped on him, since the Phoenix had appeared skyward of his ship like an avenging angel and bustled him straight through the door of his own cabin without a word, he gently pulled Marco up into his lap. “This isn’t healthy,” he murmured. Marco’s skin was feverish, heated and trembling under Shanks’ lips. “This won’t help you.” 

Marco saw  _ red. _ “I don’t— I don’t  _ want _ help,” he snapped. Shanks delicately gathered up his injured wrist and he snarled like a feral animal, trying in vain to gather enough resolve to rip away from that kind touch. “I don’t deserve help. I— not after—“ 

“He’s not coming back. Ace is dead.” 

All the weight he had bled out. All that pressure, whistling between the gaps in his teeth and the holes in his lungs. All the pain he had ripped out from under his skin. 

_ What was the fucking point, if nothing I ever do will help, will matter– _

“He’s dead, and you... doing  _ this _ to yourself isn’t going to make anything better.”

_ What’s the fucking point, if Pops is dead? If  _ Ace _ is dead? _

He didn’t want help. He didn’t deserve help. Marco shifted in Shanks’ lap. His legs were too weak to even think about standing up, but Shanks latched onto him anyway. Kept him situated, settled, cradled almost, in the space between his hands and his heart. 

Shanks’ lips, tracing a quiet breath in, out, between Marco’s shoulder blades. Over and over, until Marco’s heartbeat under his touch followed his lead. 

Slowly, Carefully. His hand slid back down From Marco’s chest, down his stomach, his hips, and wrapped back around his cock still painfully hard in his lap. A shiver ran up the Phoenix’s body. Whether from disgust or pleasure, Shanks wasn’t sure— but he finally wasn’t struggling. Tears still trailed down his face, down his neck, but the wrenching cries had quieted down to the occasional sniffle and ragged breath. 

Shanks carefully thrust up, encouraged by the gentle hitch in Marco’s throat. “Let me help you,” he murmured into his skin. “Let me touch you  _ properly. _ You don’t deserve this. You did your best.” Marco made a rough noise, in the back of his throat, but Shanks just curled in tighter. Held him fast, in his grip. No bruises, no _ breaking—  _ “Ace is gone. There is nothing to forgive. Let me give you this. You’ve hurt more than enough.” The tear tracks, barely drying on Marco’s neck, were salty-sweet. 

“Let me help you, Marco.” 

A twist of his wrist, and Marco let loose a quiet, raw sob. His spine arched, up into Shanks’ hand, head tilting back against that firm shoulder— and Shanks hummed soothingly as he slowly worked him through it. Worked him through the shudders, the twitches, the weak little whimpers that still escaped Marco’s loosening throat. “There we go. Thank you, sweetheart.” 

“It  _ hurts,” _ Marco gasped out, strung out and exhausted. “It won’t stop  _ hurting. _ They’re all... gone.” 

“I know.” A jerk, a muffled pop, and Marco barely twitched as Shanks clicked his shoulder back into place. “It never stops. But you don’t have to lose yourself to it.” 

“I don’t know what else to do.”

Shanks still didn’t sometimes, either. His own grief and pain were often as raw as they had been the first time he saw his captain’s head hit the ground. “That’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out right now.” 

He carefully cleaned him up, lifted him up and off his cock, wiped away the blood, the semen— and after a while, just sitting silently between Shanks’ legs, in his arms— Shanks saw blue flames quietly flicker up and across his body again.

**Author's Note:**

> i technically wrote this in like 40 minutes at 1am because [Irrelevancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy) _bullied_ me into completing the Unplanned Triad of Post-Marineford Grief sex fics Starring Marco ft Shanks


End file.
